




Class -C T & 1 c 
Book _ .6)1 A i 












FROM DAWN TO EVENTIDE 





MRS. BENJ. D. ORGAIN 
Aged 72 years 




BENNIE 


From Dawn to 
Eventide 

BY 

Mrs. Benj. D. Orgain 


NEW YORK 
EATON & GETTINGER 
1918 


Copyright, 1918, 

MRS. BENJ. D. ORGAIN 






DEC «;ij iiaiS V 

©CI.A.'HIS636 C, 


PRESS OF 

EATON & GETTINGER 
NEW YORK 









V 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I. Looking Backward 9 

II. Haywood Hall , . 12 

III. My Childhood Home 15 

IV. Hopewell Church 18 

V. My First Sorrow 22 

VI. School Days ' 25 

VII. Bethany High School 29 

VIII. The Boys in Grey 32 

IX. A Long Journey 35 

X. An Era in My Life 42 

XI. Our Home 46 

XII. The Old Church 48 

XIII. Life-Work 50 

XIV. The Ties That Bind 53 

XV. The Sunset of Life 55 

Genealogy 57 


1 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Mrs. Benj. D. Orgain at 72 Years. . . . Frontispiece 

The Home of My Childhood Facing page 15 

“Me and Mammy” “ “ 24 

Confederate Monument “ “ 32 

Capt. Benj. D. Orgain at 30 Years. . . “ “ 42 

Mrs. Benj. D. Orgain before Marriage Page 45 

Our First Home Facing page 46 

Methodist Church “ “ 48 

Christening Robe “ “ 49 

Our Present Home “ “ 50 

Kate Orgain McCullough Page 54 a 

Judge Thomas L. McCullough “ Sib 

Orgain Edward McCullough “ Sic 

Little Kate McCullough “ Sid 

Drusilla McCullough “ Sie 

James Clinton Orgain “ 54/ 

Mrs. Clinton Orgain and Daughter. . “ 54^ 

Will E. Orgain “ Sih 

Mrs. Will E. Orgain and Children. . “ Sii 

John Clinton Orgain “ 54; 

Dru Orgain Fiser and Andrew Lee 

Fiser, Jr “ Sik 

Elbert Sayers Orgain “ 54/ 

Mrs. Elbert Sayers Orgain “ Sim 

Franklin Darby Orgain “ Sin 


Capt. Benj. D. Orgain at 70 Years.. Facing page 56 


2 


DEDICATION 


THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY 
DEDICATED TO MY CHILDREN BY 
THEIR LOVING MOTHER 




PREFACE 


OME changes have come into my life 
since the following pages were writ- 
ten that make this foreword neces- 
sary to the purpose of my little book. 

On the 8th of March, 1916, my 
husband and I left our home for 
Baltimore, hoping that under the 
care of an eminent physician in that city, my husband’s 
impaired health might be restored. The following June 
we returned to our home in Bastrop, knowing that only a 
temporary relief had resulted from the trip, and feeling 
sure the end was not far away. During the succeeding 
Autumn and Winter months, every effort was made to 
bring back health and strength to his feeble body, but in 
vain. On Sunday morning, February 18, 1917, with an 
unclouded mind and a spirit sustained by the infinite love 
of Christ, his pure soul went home to God. A few months 
later, dear little Allie May, the first of our grandchildren 
to leave us, followed him through the shining gates and 
we knew there was a glad meeting in “The Home Over 
There.” Before a year had passed, my brother, Jno. O. 
Johnston, beloved of all for his happy and generous spirit, 
was called to his eternal rest. During the sad days that 
5 




followed, the love and sympathy of my children have 
driven away much of the sorrow that came into my home, 
and I have striven for the beauty of a cheerful spirit, a 
kind word, a helping hand for other sorrowing ones, 
knowing that we keep sunshine in our own lives by bring- 
ing it into the lives of others. 

Another change has affected our home — the marriage 
of my widowed daughter, Mrs. Fiser, to William B. 
Ransome. She had lived with me for some years, but I 
believe the love and care of this good man will make her 
life more useful and happy than it has been even in my 
own home. 

As I send this little book to the press, I can have no 
knowledge of other changes, that must come to me and 
mine, with the passing years, but we cannot drift beyond 
God’s loving care, and knowing this, I am content. 

D. J. O. 


Bastrop, Texas. 
June, IQl8 . 


FROM DAWN TO EVENTIDE 


FROM DAWN TO EVENTIDE 


CHAPTER I. 


Looking Backward. 

C HIS quiet summer day, when the lights and 
shadows from earth’s myriad hills, and the green- 
ness of her majestic woods give touches of ex- 
quisite beauty to the landscape, I have, in fancy, gone 
back to find the flowers that bloomed about the home of 
my childhood. I have sat again beside the little brook 
as it murmured along its winding way to the open sea, 
and have watched the fleecy clouds chase each other 
across the blue sky. Again the soft turf of the starry 
meadow has sunk beneath the tramp of childish feet, 
while over the stillness I heard the faint echo of the dove’s 
low mournful song, as she awaited the coming of her 
mate. 


There's a fair elusive vision that would vanish into air 
Dared I even touch the silence with the whisper of a prayer ; 
I turn the leaves of fancy till in shadowy form I see 
The home I loved in childhood , * mid the hills of Tennessee . 


Memory is the streamlet of the scene , 
Which sweeps the hills of life between — 
And when our waking hour is past , 
Upon its shore we rest at last — 

And love to view the waters fair 
And see lost joys repictured there. 

9 


io From Dawn to Eventide 

While in this pleasing, reminiscent mood, I am re- 
minded of a little task that has more than once presented 
itself to my mind. I have often thought that my children 
and grandchildren might be interested in a brief recital 
of some of the years of my life, the early part of which 
is so little known to them. If this simple narrative should 
seem very personal, it is only because it must be so to 
accomplish its object. 

In this day when so much stress is laid on the genea- 
logical tree, it is gratifying to be able to establish an 
unbroken family record, from the time when the Hugue- 
nots left their homes in sunny France and sought religious 
freedom elsewhere, down to the present year, 1916. 

My mother’s maternal grandfather, Peter Forney, left 
France in 1685, when the Edict of Nantes was revoked, 
and the Huguenots had to flee for their lives. He settled 
in Alsace, and after a few years died there. His young 
son, Jacob, removed from Alsace to Amsterdam and after- 
ward came to America and settled first in Pennsylvania 
and later in North Carolina ; his descendants were staunch 
Presbyterians, loyal patriots and daring soldiers in the 
Revolutionary War. To him I am indebted, through my 
mother, for my right to membership in the Daughters of 
the American Revolution, and from my mother’s paternal 
ancestors, the Alexanders, I am entitled to membership in 
the Colonial Dames. I love most the Daughters of 
the Confederacy, that highly patriotic organization of 
Southern women, to which the loyalty of my father to 


Looking Backward 


ii 


his native South, and the untarnished records of my 
brothers as Confederate soldiers, give me access, but I am 
not insensible to the honor of a well-established and 
worthy record from patriotic sires, to membership in those 
older, national societies, the Daughters of the American 
Revolution and the Colonial Dames. These privileges 
all come to me through the exalted courage and valor of 
my forefathers for generations past, and it is with a 
worthy pride that I record today, that the Huguenot 
blood that flows in my veins I transmit to my children as 
pure and unsullied as I received it from my forefathers. 
It is a fact that should always be remembered in this con- 
nection, that the virtues of our ancestors can not atone 
for the vices of their descendants. After all they have 
done for those who come after them, each must stand or 
fall on individual worth. 


CHAPTER II. 

Haywood Hall. 

I N the early part of the Nineteenth Century, three 
brothers, Richard, John and Matthew Johnston, 
settled on adjoining plantations in the northern 
part of Giles County, Tennessee. A clear stream of water 
known as Haywood Creek flowed through one of these 
plantations, owned by my grandfather, and from the front 
porch of his modest mansion, which we called Haywood 
Hall, we had a fine view of the swift waters and the green 
hills and trees in the distance. A precipitous peak, really 
a small mountain, rose abruptly to a great height just 
above the water’s edge. I often wondered what was in 
the forest beyond, for we never penetrated into its mys- 
terious wilds. It always seemed to threaten us with 
danger, as its dark edges overhung the valley beneath. 
These three brothers spent their long and useful lives in 
these homes, to which they came in early life, bringing 
with them their wives, their servants, their household 
goods, their strong bodies and active minds, and the 
sterling qualities and virtues that make good citizens. 
They and their neighbors built churches and schools, and 
here their sons and daughters were brought up and trained 
for future usefulness. 

In the home of John Johnston, the second of the 
12 


Haywood Hall 


13 


brothers, my father, James M. Johnston, was born Sep- 
tember 5th, 1812. He was reared amid circumstances 
peculiarly favorable to the growth of the strong, generous, 
Christian character that marked his whole life. My 
mother, Susan M. Alexander, was the only daughter of 
James O. Alexander and his wife, Drusilla Abernathy. 
These parents died when the daughter was very young, 
and she was reared by her aunt, who was the wife of 
Matthew Johnston. In this happy family circle she grew 
into womanhood, loving and beloved, and when she was 
nineteen years of age and my father was a strong young 
man, they were happily married at Haywood Hall. 

This home deserves more than a passing mention. It 
was spacious and comfortable, and generously supplied 
with all that was needed for the happy girls and boys of 
the family, who were taught to love their home and to 
work as well as play. In front of the house was the “big 
road” leading to Pulaski, the County site, where the men 
from various neighborhoods went on first Mondays to 
trade and talk politics. As they were passing they often 
stopped to speak with my grandfather, who usually, in 
fine weather, sat in an armchair on the front porch. There 
his light evening meal was served, and Uncle Sam, 
the foreman, would come there to talk with “Old Master” 
about the work in the fields. Often the sweet, placid 
face of my grandmother was beside him, for they had 
all things in common, and each knew the mind and 
heart of the other. 


*4 


From Dawn to Eventide 


In the backyard were the neat cabins where the con- 
tented negroes, when the day’s work was done and supper 
was over, sat outside the door, while Uncle Sam played 
the fiddle and the younger negroes danced in the moon- 
light. Many a time the white children looked on and 
wished they could dance, too, but Presbyterians in those 
days did not allow their children to dance, so they could 
only look on. 

In this home, every part of which was dear to them, 
this father and mother grew old together, and I remem- 
ber well the day when the gentle hands of the faithful 
wife were folded over her still and peaceful breast, and 
then the aged husband waited in loneliness through the 
weary years until he joined her again in a home where 
parting is not known. 

During the War of 1861-65 the Federal soldiers in 
their destructive marches through the Southland despoiled 
and ruined many homes, and this one did not escape. 
Pathetic appeals were made to save it and preserve its 
valuable furnishings, especially the fine old grandfather’s 
clock that had told the hours of births, of marriages, of 
deaths through so many years ; but in vain — it was wan- 
tonly destroyed with many other cherished things that 
were a part of the history of this dear old place. 








THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD 
Tennessee, 1850 



CHAPTER III. 




My Childhood Home. 

[Y PARENTS began housekeeping on a farm, and 
to them were born six children — John, Drusilla, 
Matthew, Sina, Mary and James. Two of these 
died in infancy, one in later life, and three are living 
today. I was the eldest daughter and was named Drusilla 
for my grandmother Alexander. My birthday was July 
the 2d, 1843. My brother, John O., was two years older. 
We spent our early life in the country, except for a few 
years when I was just old enough to enter a little village 
school. I hardly think I was a regular pupil, but went 
with my older brother sometimes, as children were 
allowed to do in those days, and while I learned few les- 
sons, I remember well the kind teacher and the play hour 
with the happy girls and boys. 

My brother John and I used to have great fun slipping 
away from our home and playing behind the counters 
in our Uncle R. M.’s big brick store nearby, where our 
father sometimes assisted in selling dry goods and gro- 
ceries to the villagers and the people who came in from 
the country. The boxes of cut loaf sugar, the jars of 
striped peppermint candy, the sacks of marbles of all 
sizes and colors, the shining tinware, and the pretty flow- 
ered china were wonderfully pleasing to our young fancy, 


16 From Dawn to Eventide 

and that store was a veritable palace of beauty to our 
simple tastes. 

About this time a dear little sister, the youngest of us 
all, was taken from us. We saw her asleep on her little 
white bed, with folded hands so still and pale, and then 
she was laid away, we knew not where; this loss drew 
our parents nearer to each other and linked them more 
closely with God and the angels. After a few years in 
this little town, Lynnville, my father purchased a farm 
some miles distant, and took us to a new home. We were 
delighted with the change. The large, airy rooms, the 
big fireplaces, the shady beech trees, the rock-bottom 
springhouse with the great stream of pure water flowing 
through it, the apple orchard, the big woods lot, the 
green meadows, all made our hearts glad. 

We found wonderful things in this beautiful home. 
Not far away were the steep hills, covered with oak, 
poplar and chestnut trees, those great monarchs of the 
forest, whose green tops seemed to reach up to the blue 
heavens, while away to the South lay the rich valley with 
its cotton, its corn, its golden fields of wheat, — and still 
further away were the dark mysterious woods, full of 
singing birds, shy squirrels and many strange things that 
we had never seen. 

There was a beautiful garden, with old-fashioned 
flowers, fragrant lilies, crimson peonies and dahlias, pinks 
and honeysuckles that I remember my mother dearly 
loved. In the backyard, we climbed the cherry trees and 


My Childhood Home 


17 


peeped into the redbird’s nests, and there were many 
things that filled our childish hearts with delight. Even 
the rainy days were welcome. I used to spend many of 
them with my father in the farm shop. This was a large 
house in one corner of the woods lot, made of logs, and 
fitted up with a furnace and tools for repairing the farm- 
ing implements. This work was done on rainy days. One 
man would work the bellows, another hold the iron in the 
fire, where it was beaten into the desired shape, while the 
numberless bright sparks chased each other like children 
at play. My brother and I would gather the long, clean 
shavings and watch the anvil and try to count and catch 
the sparks as they flew upward, and disappeared, just as 
we have many times since seen bright and beautiful things 
that we tried to keep fly away beyond our reach and pass 
out of sight forever. We had leisure to hunt the speckled 
turkey eggs and watch the ducks sail on the spring branch, 
and we made royal play-houses under the wide spreading 
beech trees. 

I have always been glad that I lived these years in the 
country, and learned to know and love the high hills, the 
sunny valleys, the song of the birds and the hum of the 
bees, the wild flowers and the music of the murmuring 
streams, the whisper of the gentle breeze, the mighty voice 
of the storm, and the rush of the mountain torrent, as it 
found its way through narrow ledges to the open river. 
All these things are familiar and dear to the country child, 
and bring him closer to Nature and to God. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Hopewell Church. 

^^l/HESE were bright, happy years, and the memory 
£ ) of them to-day stirs my heart and brings my joy- 

ous childhood back again. The advent of a new 
little sister had brought great joy into our home circle, 
and our happiness seemed now complete. 

Every day around the family altar God’s Word was 
read, and our voices were raised in song and prayer. On 
Sundays we went regularly to the service of the Hopewell 
Presbyterian Church, eight miles distant. 

While I was very small I was often left at the home of 
my great-aunt, Rebecca Jones, who lived nearer the 
Church, and “Mammy Ibby” took care of me and her 
own little child “Marfy,” while my mother attended serv- 
ice. For years my father and my grandfather were ruling 
Elders in this church, for which we had a peculiar venera- 
tion. There are few memories more dear to me than those 
of this old Temple of Worship. In it my father and 
mother had in early life consecrated themselves to God, and 
at its sacred altar they had dedicated their children to 
Him in holy baptism. There I heard year after year the 
“old, old story,” and there, as around the fireside of my 
own home, I was taught to know and love God as my 
Father and Heaven as my Home. By its session of ruling 
elders I was admitted to its membership, and there was in 
the hearts of the worshippers in this old country church 
18 


Hopewell Church 


19 


a deep feeling of reverence for the very ground upon 
which it stood. It was one of the hills unto which they 
“lifted up their eyes to the Lord from whom came their 
help, the Lord God, who made Heaven and earth.” 
Every surrounding, the deep, dense woodland, the smiling 
fields, the grassy slopes, the streams that sung along their 
rocky beds, the wild vines clinging to the overhanging 
limbs of the forest, — all were constant reminders of God’s 
power and presence in the great, beautiful world that He 
made for our use and enjoyment. 

All through the years, on Sunday mornings, the country 
people of the surrounding neighborhoods and plantations 
gathered here; the grassy lanes between the farms, and 
the well trodden paths through the woods were thronged 
with church-goers. Some walking from near-by homes, 
others riding horseback or driving in buggies, barouches 
and the old-time carriages, with the negro drivers and 
maids riding outside. Old and young, rich and poor came 
to worship the same God. The grand old hymns rung out 
with no uncertain tones in immortal words of faith and 
triumph that have, through the ages, strengthened and 
comforted God’s people. Earnest prayers arose from 
pious souls, and a long sermon was devoutly listened to 
by the congregation. I often went to sleep under its sooth- 
ing effect, for after a ride in the fresh morning air, sleep 
came easily to young and tired eyes, but I loved to be 
there, although I could not understand all the sermon. 
I learned the hymns and used to sing them with the con- 


20 


From Dawn to Eventide 


gregation with great delight, and I absorbed much of the 
religious atmosphere of the place and a love for God’s 
house that has been a help and comfort to me all my life. 

In the afternoon the church was filled with the negro 
servants, and the minister who read and expounded the 
Scriptures to the masters in the forenoon, brought the 
same gospel to the simple hearts of these humble people, 
who heard it gladly, and as they were naturally an emo- 
tional race, their shouts of praise often rung through the 
house, until the preacher’s voice could scarcely be heard. 
They were a religious people, loved to sing and pray, and 
many of them, I am sure, have long ago greeted “old Mas- 
ter and Mistress” with great joy in a better world than 
this. 

When Autumn came and the early frost crimsoned the 
forest leaves and painted the landscape with hues richer 
and more beautiful than the artist’s brush or the poet’s 
fancy could depict, then a wonderful gathering might be 
seen at the old church — the annual camp meeting. For 
days beforehand men were busy clearing the ground and 
repairing the camps. Leaky roofs were mended, fresh, 
clean, fragrant hay and straw were spread in the rooms 
and under the large shed for public services. Then the 
families were moved in — men, women, children and serv- 
ants, — cooks and maids. Open house was kept for a week 
or ten days, during which time the revival services of the 
church were conducted with great earnestness and zeal in 
the large pavilion, called then, a shed. I do not believe 


Hopewell Church 


21 


the younger people of this generation can have a correct 
idea of the old-time camp-meeting. There is nothing in 
this day like it. Every camp fronted toward the church; 
benches were arranged along the walls of the broad halls, 
on each side of which were large bedrooms, one for men, 
one for women, and in the rear was the commodious fam- 
ily apartment and the long dining shed. In the back yard 
were the servants’ quarters, and “Cook-Ma” was in her 
glory when she could feed more folks than her next door 
neighbor, “Mammy Ibby.” At the bugle call for early 
morning prayer, men, women and children came quietly 
and reverently from all directions and mingled their 
voices in a song of praise and fervent petitions for God’s 
blessing on the assembly and His Guidance for the day. 
Large congregations attended these solemn services, where 
penitential tears were shed and God’s forgiven children 
gave expression to the peace and love that filled their 
souls, sometimes by glad tears of silent joy, sometimes by 
happy shouts of praise. Sunday was a great day, — great 
throngs of worshippers, a great sermon, morning, after- 
noon and night, great volumes of song and prayer and a 
great dinner for everybody. This dinner was cooked on 
Saturday and served cold on Sunday with hot coffee for 
the older people. 

Eternity alone will reveal the gracious results of these 
old-fashioned camp meetings, where our fathers and our 
grandfathers with their families went up to God’s temple 
to worship and bear testimony to His redeeming grace. 


CHAPTER V. 


CD 


My First Sorrow. 

mother’s death was my first great sorrow. It 
was a fair day in April, — without was the sun- 
shine, the flowers, the song of birds, but within 
were falling tears, sobbing children and breaking hearts. 
As I now recall that day, more than three score years ago, 
I feel again the desolation that filled my heart, when I 
saw the smiling face that had been the light of our home 
hidden beneath the green sod of the old Hopewell ceme- 
tery. A burial — an open grave — was something so strange 
and sorrowful that my childish mind could not compre- 
hend it, but I knew something terrible in its mystery and 
agony was taking place, when a strong, quiet man, like my 
father, sobbed with grief as he turned away from the new- 
made grave and went back to his desolate home. 

Our household had been a very happy one — simple liv- 
ing, good cheer and love abounding. How changed it was 
from that day! We wandered about the empty rooms 
with a feeling of indescribable loneliness known only to 
the motherless child. The tiny infant left so helpless, 
was tenderly nursed by relatives, but after a few months 
God took it to Himself, and as my tears fell on the little 
coffin, young as I was, I felt glad that the dear baby was 
safe in Heaven with mother. 


22 


My First Sorrow 


23 


I have never known a better man than my father. Al- 
though he was happily married again some years after 
my mother’s death, he was through his long life of more 
than four-score years devoted to the memory of his first 
love. He has told me that he loved my mother the first 
time he saw her, when she came a little dark-eyed, mother- 
less child to his uncle’s home. She was a gentle, pretty 
girl, and with the chivalric spirit of a manly boy, he was 
from that first day her self-constituted friend, and if need 
be, champion. During the years that followed, not only 
before but after their marriage, his was the tender heart 
that was fond and true to the last. I wish I could today 
pay him the tribute he so well deserves, but there are no 
words to tell how patient, how kind, how gentle and self- 
denying he was. He tried, after our mother’s death, with 
the help of a faithful old servant, to keep us together as 
much as possible. 

I can never forget our nearest neighbors — the 
Perrys, who were at this time so kind and sympathetic. 
They lived in a peculiarly constructed, big log 
house, its many rooms filled with old-fashioned things. 
It had small windows and immense fireplaces. In the 
great kitchen was a very broad hearth, on which they pre- 
pared their meals. No stove, no servants, — they did 
everything themselves in a very primitive way. They 
spun, they wove, and made their own clothes. They had 
pigs and geese, cows and horses, chickens and turkeys, 
bees, orchards, gardens and everything good to eat from 


24 


From Dawn to Eventide 


cider and ginger cakes to roast turkey and mince pie. 
They were very clean, simple, old-fashioned folks, and 
knew only to be good and just and honest. They wor- 
shipped God in their own way and followed the golden 
rule. They loved my father and mother, and always had 
a tender word and outstretched hand for the motherless 
children. My father was necessarily absent much of the 
day, and I often spent hours in the home of these good 
people, but I was usually left in the kind, but untutored 
care of a good, old black mammy, who did the best she 
could for “Marse Jimmy’s Chillun.” 

In all the pages of history or literature has there been 
any other character like that of the faithful old “Black 
Mammy” so familiar to all Southern homes? Where is 
the Southern child who has not been rocked to sleep in 
her strong loving arms, listening to her sweet lullaby? 
She was not thought of as a slave, hardly as a servant, she 
was simply “dear old Black Mammy.” She has no coun- 
terpart in the past, no parallel in the present, and to 
future generations she will be a myth, a mysterious, im- 
possible something, beyond belief. She was more aristo- 
cratic than her mistress, and was the self-appointed guar- 
dian of the dignity, the honor and the pride of her “white 
folks.” She was a great believer in “quality,” and had no 
respect for “Po’ Folks, who didn’t have no niggers to wait 
on- ’em.” Peace to her memory! We shall never see her 
like again. 







“ME AND MAMMY” 


Hush-a-bye, my baby! Mammy’s little chile! 

You’s shorely gwine to sleep in a mighty little while, 

The bees has quit a buzzin ’ and the birds is in der nest, 

So cuddle down your little head upon your Mammy’s breast. 

When de stars dey is a winkin’ and a blinkin’ in de sky, 

An a peepin’ at dis chile from dey home way up on high, 

It’s steepin’ time, chillun, so come and take your rest, 

And cuddle down your little head upon your Mammy’s breast. 





CHAPTER VI. 

School Days. 

^TT^HEN I was thirteen years of age, I entered a select 
T I J school in Pulaski, taught by Mrs. Nathan Adams, 
a most cultured, gracious and elegant woman. 
My father never did a better thing for me than to send me 
to this school. Until this time my life had been that of 
the usual country child, playing with my brothers, enjoy- 
ing without restraint the pleasures of childhood, mingling 
with the honest, unassuming people of the ordinary coun- 
try neighborhood. 

My brother and I had the benefit of one term in a 
country school taught by Mr. Paschal, a noted teacher 
of the three R’s, who punished all the boys, big and 
little, by standing them in the corner with their faces 
to the wall, and cracking them over the head with a 
stick, and terrified the girls by rushing savagely at them 
with furious gestures and retreating without saying a 
word. We had ridden horseback three miles day after 
day to the little town of Lynnville, that we might have 
the benefit of Prof. Marcus’ teaching, and I had even 
boarded in the village and attended the girls’ school taught 
by Misses Lucy Bugg and Amelia Beal. My cousins, who 
lived very near us, and my brothers and I were for a while 
under the tutelage of a Yankee governess, Miss Forbes, a 
nice clever lady of uncertain age, but as our fathers were 

25 


26 


From Dawn to Eventide 


both widowers, we girls were afraid Miss Forbes might 
have designs upon their affections, so we did not offer in- 
ducements for her to remain long. 

My advantages had been limited, and the change from 
our quiet, secluded home to the busy stirring atmosphere 
of the town, with its various phases of active life, the 
orderly school room with all its incentives to study, a new 
world of books and music and art, with doors wide open 
to the aspiring student — all these fascinating things 
opened to my imagination a vista of wonderful possibili- 
ties that I believed were within my grasp. I soon realized 
what it meant to be associated with a wise, sympathetic 
teacher, a tender-hearted woman, who understood my 
needs, and in the most effective manner led me into a 
higher and better way of thinking and living. Four years 
I was a busy student in this school, admitted to familiar 
intercourse with the home life of my teacher, who was my 
friend and my ideal of womanly grace and culture. 

It was my great privilege to take up at this time the 
study of music. We had always loved music in our home ; 
our mother had a sweet voice, our father sang well, and 
we always closed the day with song and prayer. We were 
familiar with much sacred music and many household 
melodies, and I looked forward to the time when I should 
begin the real study of that divine art that has so blessed 
and comforted the world. I had heard with delight in 
my woodland home the unspeakable music of the bird- 
song and the forest melodies that had thrilled other hearts 


School Days 


27 


through all the centuries past. I had listened to the 
drowsy murmur of dreamy winds at twilight, and the 
clear sweet notes that came at dawn, as “Aurora touched 
the great harp of Nature with her rosy fingers.” 

These were the voices of the Morning and Night, the 
unwritten melodies of nature that find their way to the 
heart of the happy country child, and fill it with an inex- 
pressible sense of the mystery and the beauty of the great 
wide world about us. These were the voices that sing 

The grace of the bending grasses. 

The flush of the dawn-lit sky. 

The scent that lingers and passes. 

When the loitering winds go by, 

I welcomed the hour when, under the guidance of a 
teacher, I might become familiar with the wonderful har- 
monies hidden in the works of the great Masters of Music. 
I believe there is in every soul a silent note awaiting the 
magic touch that shall cause it to vibrate in sympathy 
with what is highest and holiest in our natures, and the 
sooner that silent chord is touched, the greater the re- 
sponse it gives. 

I was much favored by being closely associated with 
a gifted woman, who was an accomplished pianist and 
a thorough musician. She was my personal friend 
and took great interest in my musical studies. Her 
interpretation of the classics was an inspiration to me. 
She played often for me, and much with me, and sang 


28 


From Dawn to Eventide 


the difficult and beautiful arias of the Operas with great 
taste and feeling. She had wonderful technic, a sweet, 
clear, sympathetic touch, and never tired of her favorite 
instrument, the piano. It was almost a living thing under 
her touch, and the admiring girls would exclaim, “Oh, 
Mrs. Griffith, I wish I could play like you.” She would 
reply, “If you would play as I do, you must practice as 
I do.” And there we learned the secret of success, — work, 
work, work, — a fine lesson for the young. 

During this formative period of my life, my father was 
fortunate in selecting for me a school home, and I can 
never fully appreciate the tender, motherly care shown me 
by Mrs. Nitia Gordon White, in whose home I was for so 
long a time. Her rich experience, her sympathy with all 
the problems of a school girl’s life, her firm but kind disci- 
pline made daily intercourse with her a blessing. She and 
her husband, Dr. T. C. White, a beloved physician, were 
solicitous for the physical and moral welfare of all about 
them. The congenial company of girls gathered daily at 
their table, the cheerful conversation, the early morning 
walks in the beautiful garden, the afternoon strolls, the 
musical evenings, the strange, wonderful, blessed influ- 
ence of the twilight hour with “Cousin Nitia,” — the mem- 
ory of all these things is inexpressibly dear to me, as I sit 
amid the lengthening shadows of life’s sunset, and see 
again the radiance of its early day. If my life has been 
useful, or helpful, to the little world in which I move, I 
owe it most to my father, my teacher and this ideal friend. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Bethany High School. 

I N June, i860, I said good-bye to my happy school- 
days, and the following September accepted a po- 
sition as teacher in the primary department of the 
Bethany High School. I took with me into this school 
my sister Mary, a child much younger than myself. 
We were motherless and I always had more than 
a sister’s love and solicitude for her. My younger 
brother, Matthew, also was a student of this school, 
which was under the direction of Rev. John O. 
Sullivan, a Presbyterian minister, and was admirably 
suited to the needs of the excellent community in which it 
was located. It was a fine, country neighborhood, re- 
markable for its culture and intelligence. From its homes 
have gone out men who were an honor to the community 
and state. Neill S. Brown and his brother, John C. 
Brown, both governors of their native state, were born 
and reared in this vicinity. The names of Caldwell, Mc- 
Callum, Ordway, King, Wilson, Stevenson and others are 
held in grateful remembrance for their influence in church 
and state. The commodious school building stood on the 
slope of a green hill, with the free air and sunshine on 
every side. In the third story there was a bright cosy 
roof-room, whose windows afforded a fine view of the 
29 


3 ° 


From Dawn to Eventide 


magnificent forest and the pretty country church, with its 
white walls shining amid the green foliage. At early 
dawn or sunrise, this was a scene of exquisite beauty to a 
lover of nature. Familiarity with the woods makes us 
often forgetful of their splendor, and few of us appreciate 
the wonderful combination of strength and symmetry in 
our American forests. The tall poplar, the graceful elm, 
the clean grey-coated beech, the majestic oak, the dog- 
wood with its glory of white bloom, and hundreds of 
other fine trees cast their long, soft shadows across the 
bright sunshine and made a picture which neither pen 
nor brush can aptly describe. 

I often sat by my window, looked out upon the beauti- 
ful world and heard from the church nearby the songs of 
praise floating upon the air, and I felt that heaven was 
not far away. This room, high and airy, my sister and I 
shared with the music teacher and her adopted charge, 
a sweet, motherless child. When night came Miss Hattie 
and I tucked our two little girls, Mary and Annie, snugly 
side by side in their trundle bed and then spent the eve- 
ning with our books and music. A piano was our only 
luxury, unless I mention the bright wood fire, that cheered 
and warmed our cosy apartment, and the easy chairs that 
added to our comfort. During the day we were very busy, 
often anxious, sometimes disappointed in our hopes and 
plans, but when the day was done we found in this sweet 
homelike place, rest and peace. 

A few years ago, after nearly half a century of change, 


Bethany High School 


3 1 


I visited this place with my young daughter, Dru, to show 
her the spot where I had spent a part of my early life. 
Did I find it the same? Yes and no. The trees were there, 
but more majestic, the church was there, but showed the 
defacing touch of time, the sunny room was there, but bare 
and empty. The kind face of the music teacher was long 
since shut out from earthly sight and sound. The busy 
hands and restless feet of the dear little girls were forever 
still, and I alone was left; left, not desolate, not sorrowing, 
not hopeless, but bearing into the years that were silvering 
my hair and dimming my eyes, a heart full of thankful- 
ness for the happy past and full of hope for the rest of 
my journey. A few friends of the long ago were still 
there — old and grey. I thought of the intervening years, 
the later school days of my little sister, her graduation as 
valedictorian of her class, her return home as a young 
lady, her early happy marriage, her useful, Christian life 
and her peaceful entering into rest when her work was 
done, and my heart whispered “God bless her; she rests in 
Heaven.” I thought of my beloved father, who in his old 
age had gently fallen asleep and gone to his reward. 
Standing in the midst of these dear memories, the cruel 
war that had so desolated our country, seemed almost a 
terrible dream, but the changed conditions in this once 
prosperous community told a sorrowful story and brought 
me again face to face with the real present. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The Boys in Grey. 

C HE period between i860 and 1865 was an era in 
the history of our country marked with bloodshed 
and embittered by poverty, loss and sorrow. The 
flower and chivalry of the South responded readily to the 
call to arms for the defense of Constitutional rights, and 
braver men never drew the sword than those who wore the 
grey. At the end of four long trying years they saw their 
hopes lie dead. They furled the Stars and Bars, they laid 
away in memory’s dearest niche the remembrance of the 
Southern Cross which they had followed on many a battle- 
field. Yet they won a great moral victory whose lustre 
will never grow dim. They left a heritage of glory — 
these men who were to us 


The knightliest of a knightly race , 

Who since the days of old 
Have kept the lamp of chivalry 
Alight in hearts of gold. 

No true Southerner can look upon their record, stained 
as it is with blood and tears, but never with dishonor, 
without feeling his heart throb with pride as he realizes 
what the Southern soldiers wrought in heroism and valor 
for their country, during the brief, but glorious existence 

32 











The Boys in Grey 


33 


of the Southern Confederacy. My brothers were soldiers, 
the older one, John O., with Walker’s Texas Cavalry, the 
younger one, Matthew, with the gallant Forrest. They 
survived the days of field and camp, and are today good 
citizens of Texas, their homes in Austin City. My father 
suffered many losses and persecutions during the War, as 
our home was so often in the enemy’s lines with the shift- 
ing of the armies in the Border States. 

Several years after the death of my mother, my father 
had married Mrs. Mary Shields Thompson, an excellent 
lady, who was a faithful and helpful companion during 
the troublesome war times, and until her death years 
afterward. One child, Anna Lou, was born of this union, 
who grew into lovely womanhood, and after a few months 
of happy wedded life passed away, her brief existence 
ended like a dream. 

The South was many years recovering from the disas- 
trous effects of the War. Her homes were desolated and 
her cities burned during the progress of Sherman’s March 
to the Sea. Her fields were laid bare, her churches lev- 
eled to the ground, and every conceivable method of de- 
struction was hurled upon her suffering people. Every- 
thing seemed changed. The old plantations no longer 
resounded, as they once did, with the quaint responsive 
song of the negroes, as they left the fields for their quiet 
homes when the day’s^work was done. The bench by the 
“Old Cabin Door” was deserted, and the young folks no 
longer danced in the moonlight to the music of the old 


34 


From Dawn to Eventide 


banjo. The simple, peaceful life on the old plantation 
was gone forever. The hoary head of the good old negro 
finds a soft pillow near the spot where rests the worn and 
weary form of the kind master. 

No future, however bright, no conditions, however for- 
tunate, can ever boast of a love like this — the warm, 
sympathetic feeling that bound together in lasting affec- 
tion, the old Southern master and his kind-hearted, de- 
pendent negroes. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A Long Journey. 

V T FTER the suspension of the Bethany High School 

V I because of the War, I went further South and re- 
^ mained in Mississippi teaching for some months, 

and then returned to Tennessee and taught at Beech Bluff 
near my old home. The War was not over, there was 
firing still along the line, and the soldiers were daily 
marching by our homes. The heavy cannonading at 
Franklin, not far away, fell like lead upon our hearts, for 
we knew that many a brave man would die upon that 
bloody field. When the firing had ceased, and the smoke 
of battle had cleared away, the gallant soldier and Chris- 
tian gentleman, General John Adams, our own beloved 
townsman, lay dead upon the field. Like Stonewall Jack- 
son, he was a man of prayer and held communion daily 
with his Maker. The fiery missile that made his wife a 
widow, doubtless sent his spirit to its eternal rest in heaven. 

We were in the midst of stirring and exciting scenes. 
We were anxious and uneasy daily and hourly for our 
fathers, brothers and friends who were loyally following 
the Stars and Bars under Lee and Jackson and Forrest and 
Brown and other brave Southern leaders. The women 
were knitting socks and gloves, weaving cloth and making 
suits, putting a prayer in every stitch, and watching for an 

35 


36 From Dawn to Eventide 

opportunity to send out the clothes by Confederate Scouts, 
who frequently ventured within the Federal lines, some- 
times, after thrilling and dangerous adventures, barely 
escaping capture, losing both horses and goods to save 
themselves. Among these brave and daring Scouts was 
Sam Davis, the young hero of Tennessee, whose name is 
written in letters of gold on the Scroll of Fame. I re- 
member well how all our hearts were filled with sadness 
on that day, when, rather than betray a friend, he chose to 
die. “Tell us who gave you the papers we found on your 
person,” said General Dodge, the Federal commander, 
“and you are a free man.” “Had I ten thousand lives, I 
would give them all, before I would betray my friend,” 
replied young Davis, as he ascended the scaffold to his 
death. Then General Dodge said sadly, “You are a noble 
boy, and I hate to see you die, but the rules of war are in- 
exorable.” Both friend and foe lamented the cruel fate 
of this brave young soldier. 

After four years peace was declared, but the days fol- 
lowing, known as the “reconstruction period,” were so ter- 
rible in the South, that only those who experienced their 
unparalleled cruelty and injustice, can realize the dangers 
that constantly threatened the women and children of the 
Southern States. It was during this “reign of terror,” 
when Southern men could not longer submit to the in- 
dignities of the carpet-bagger and his negro comrades, or 
openly protect their homes from their presence, that a 
few determined and fearless men resolved to band them- 


A Long J ourney 


37 


selves together for the protection of their women and 
children. On the night of December 24, 1865, six young 
men of Pulaski — Calvin Jones, John C. Lester, John B. 
Kennedy, Frank O. McCord, R. R. Reed and James R. 
Crowe — young business men belonging to the best fam- 
ilies, all ex-Confederate soldiers, met at the law office of 
Judge Thos. M. Jones, an ex-Confederate Congressman, 
and organized that wonderful secret organization, so 
widely known as the Ku Klux Klan. I knew these young 
men well; they were frequent visitors in “our circle,” 
popular and highly respected, and as we talked of the 
doings of the “Klan,” we did not know they would be 
famous as its founders. A tablet is now being placed in 
Judge Jones’ office by the Daughters of the Confederacy, 
inscribing thereon these names and the date of the or- 
ganization. When law and order were restored, General 
Forrest, who was Commander-in-Chief of the “Klan,” 
ordered its discontinuance, and the real Ku Klux Klan 
was dissolved. Many reckless and cruel acts were per- 
petrated afterwards in the name of the Klan, for which 
it was in no manner responsible. 

The years I spent at Beech Bluff were among the pleas- 
ant ones of my life; I had kind and generous patrons, 
intelligent pupils, plenty of leisure for self culture, good 
health and lucrative as well as congenial work. The spirit 
of the people was not broken. As the country resumed 
its peaceful occupations, efforts were made to rebuild the 
churches, open the schools, cultivate the fields and enjoy 




From Dawn to Eventide 


life again. I was a young teacher, hopeful and enthusi- 
astic, and very much in love with life and my work, but I 
wondered if there were not golden opportunities beyond. 
I longed to see more of the world, and get a broader and 
fuller knowledge of the responsible place I believed the 
teacher should fill. 

Many years before this, my uncle, Mr. R. M. 
Johnston, whom I loved next to my father, had gone 
to Texas and settled in Austin. He was a good citizen, a 
prosperous merchant, and often cordially invited me to 
his home. My older brother, John O., had gone to the 
Lone Star State, had enlisted there and returned at the 
close of the War to make Austin City his home, and now 
my younger brother wished to try his fortune in that dis- 
tant State. This seemed the very opportunity I desired, 
to see something of other lands and peoples, so after very 
brief preparations, my brother and I left our home in De- 
cember, 1867, undertaking what was to us a long journey. 

We stopped at Memphis and New Orleans, and had at 
the last named city our first sight of the Mexican Gulf, as 
we took passage there on a Morgan steamship for the Port 
of Galveston. This city was just recovering from the 
dreadful scourge of yellow fever and we spent very little 
time there, passing on to Houston and Austin. The tree- 
less plains, the sluggish streams, slowly threading their 
way between narrow banks, the herds of cattle roaming at 
will the broad prairies, were new and strange sights to our 
untraveled eyes. 


A Long J ourney 


39 


At that time, nearly fifty years ago, few people 
imagined the greatness to which this Empire State 
would attain in half a century. Her vast plains were then 
covered with thousands of wild horses and cattle and 
many bands of roving Indians ; now these broad acres are 
planted in cotton, corn and wheat, and dotted from the 
Red River to the Gulf of Mexico with beautiful cities 
and prosperous towns. Great railway systems make rapid 
transit possible through all points of her vast domain. 
Immense quantities of oil and gas, of coal and other hid- 
den resources, add to her wealth and increase her impor- 
tance as a great State. What her future will be we know 
not, but with her excellent citizenship, with peace and 
prosperity within her borders, she must be a blessing to 
the world. We, at this early day, went by rail to Bren- 
ham, then the terminus of the Central Railway, and from 
that city to Austin we traveled in an old-fashioned stage- 
coach. I very much enjoyed that ride in an old lumbering 
coach through a sparsely settled, strange country. There 
were as many passengers as could be comfortably seated 
inside, and only two ladies, who were treated with great 
deference by the gentlemen. The hours passed in cheerful 
conversation, interspersed with exclamations of delight 
at seeing the stately pines, with their shapely trunks reach- 
ing upward many, many feet, their odd looking cones 
growing thick on the branches, and the fragrant needles 
covering the earth beneath like a rich brown carpet. A 
lunch at noon, a change of horses, and the merry travelers 
were on their way again. 


4 o 


From Dawn to Eventide 


The close of the first day brought us to a pretty 
little town, picturesquely located on the east bank 
of the Colorado River. Weary from our ride, we 
alighted at a large two-story inn, with broad gal- 
leries encircling it, and were met by a kind and cordial 
old gentleman, the worthy host of the famous Nicholson 
House, and were invited into the neat parlor. The view 
from these galleries was lovely. On the west was the 
Colorado, winding like a dark thread between the willows 
that grew along its banks, — the tall hills on the north and 
east stood like mighty sentinels guarding the entrance to 
the broad, fertile valley on the south, and the town itself 
rested like an opal gem amid its beautiful surroundings. 
When we entered the dining hall we found another reason 
why this hotel was such a favorite with all travelers, for 
the neat table, the well-cooked turkey, the hot bread, the 
steaming potatoes, the sauces, the preserves and pies and 
other good things made us forget the fatigue and incon- 
venience of the day’s journey, and feel that we were in a 
land where the art of cooking, in the good old Southern 
style, had not been lost. The most anxious host could not 
desire more real evidence of the excellence of his menu 
than was furnished by the tired and hungry guests who ate 
heartily of this good dinner. 

The twilight had deepened and a few stars were 
shining overhead when we were reseated in the coach 
and drove down to the ferry and said good-bye to 
the fair little town of Bastrop. I did not dream, 


A Long J ourney 


4 1 


as I looked back from the steep river banks to 
catch a parting glimpse of its beauty, that in the future 
this place would be my home, the spot of all the world 
most dear to me. The night air was cool as we proceeded 
on our journey, and we drew our wraps closely about us 
and soon fell into a quiet, drowsy calm, and the remainder 
of our trip was without incident. The morning found us 
in the State capital, Austin, the beautiful city of hills. 
Mount Bonnell, with all its romantic traditions, rose ma- 
jestically on the north, while the bold waters of the Colo- 
rado encircled its base. 

The pretty little city could not boast then of the hand- 
some homes, beautiful streets, imposing public buildings, 
splendid University and elegant churches and school 
buildings that are its pride and glory today, but its good 
people were busy laying the foundation for its future 
prosperity. We found a cordial welcome awaiting us 
from my uncle and my brother, John O., who was just 
happily married to a lovely Texas girl, and they made my 
visit to them full of pleasure and interest. I have often 
thought this journey must have been the leading of Provi- 
dence, as it resulted in the making of my home in Texas. 


CHAPTER X. 

An Era in My Life. 

I N January, 1869, I accepted a position as assistant 
teacher in the Colorado Institute, a flourishing 
and popular school in Bastrop. This town was 
well known as an educational centre. Long years before 
the war, the Hancock School and the Old Allen Academy, 
and after the war the Military Institute drew young men 
from every part of the state into their classic halls and sent 
them out to fill the highest positions within the gift of the 
people. Its residents were superior in culture and refine- 
ment to the usual small town of any state. Mrs. S. J. 
Orgain, the principal of the school in which I was to 
teach, was an experienced and successful educator, and my 
association with her was in all respects pleasant and har- 
monious. Hundreds among the best educated and promi- 
nent people of the state owe much to her superior teach- 
ing. The days fled swiftly by. My work was full of 
interest. I have never been associated with more at- 
tractive pupils, and I formed many ties among them that 
have grown stronger with the passing years and are golden 
links in a chain of friendship that shall last throughout 
the ages. 

I had been in Bastrop only a short time when I 
met Captain Benj. D. Orgain, a young and promising 
lawyer of the town, who was thoroughly identified with 
42 



CAPT. BENJ. D. ORGAIN 
Aged 30 years 





An Era in My Life 


43 


its interests, and who, as I soon discovered, was to fill a 
large place in my future life. I was now far away from 
home and friends, pursuing my daily round of duties and 
spending the passing days and weeks in the midst of new 
faces and unfamiliar scenes. It is not strange that I was 
susceptible to the courtesy, the kindness, that characterized 
the bearing and attention of gentle and thoughtful people 
toward strangers. As the days passed by, the friendly 
interest that from our first meeting had existed between 
this young stranger and myself, ripened into a warmer 
feeling, and before many months had gone, we found that 
each was necessary to the happiness of the other. The 
world had always been beautiful, but now there was a new 
fragrance in the flowers, a new freshness in the air, a new 
warmth and sympathy in human friendship, and as we 
went about our daily duties, things that heretofore seemed 
only ordinary were filled with new significance and inter- 
est. We looked upon a new face — a face, of which all the 
joy and beauty of the world, is only a symbol, a prophecy 
— the face of Love. Our experience of the world was very 
limited, but we had confidence in ourselves and faith in 
God, and the future looked bright with hope and joy. 
There were many things to be thought of and talked over 
before we could consummate an engagement that we be- 
lieved was the result of sincere respect as well as love for 
each other. 

Captain Orgain was the son of Reverend Sterling 
Orgain, a Minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, 


44 


From Dawn to Eventide 


South, who in early life left his home in Peters- 
burg, Va., and went to Murfreesboro, Tenn., where he 
met and married Mary Jones, the daughter of Reverend 
Edmund Jones. Mary Jones had been reared in a home 
of wealth and culture and had many friends in this little 
city; one of the most intimate and beloved was Miss 
Childress, who married James K. Polk, afterward Presi- 
dent of the United States. Mary Jones was bridesmaid 
at this wedding, and neither of these young girls at that 
time suspected what the future would be to them. One 
was to be the happy and devoted wife of a Minister of 
the Gospel, and the mother of a large family of sons and 
daughters, and the other the honored and beautiful Mis- 
tress of the White House at Washington, beloved for her 
many graces of mind and body. Both of these lovely 
women lived to a good old age, and though widely sepa- 
rated in later life, the friendship of their early years was a 
cherished memory to them. 

Benj. Darby was the youngest child of his parents. In 
his youth while out hunting with some of the negro boys, 
who in those days were favorite companions of their 
young masters in hunting and fishing, he had the misfor- 
tune to lose his left arm by an accidental shot. This cir- 
cumstance perhaps influenced his choice of a profession, 
and he had spent the most of the years since that time in 
school. After leaving college he studied law, and was 
now just admitted to the Bar, entering upon what we both 
believed would be a successful career. 


An Era in My Life 


45 


Looking into the future from a very practical as well as 
sentimental point of view, we decided to share our joys 
and sorrows the rest of life’s journey, be it long or short. 
On Tuesday evening, December 27, 1870, at the residence 
of my uncle, Mr. R. M. Johnston, in Austin, in the pres- 
ence of a few friends, we were married by Rev. Dr. Porter, 
pastor of the Southern Presbyterian Church. We came 
the next day to Bastrop, and after the usual wedding 
festivities during the holidays, we each with the New 
Year resumed our work, Capt. Orgain at his law office, 
and I in the school-room, and Bastrop has been our 
home ever since. 



MRS. BENJ. D. ORGAIN 
Before her marriage 


CHAPTER XI. 
Our Home. 


YEAR after our marriage I gave up teaching and 
C I we moved into our own home. We believed that 
^ when God ordained the marriage relation He set 
His seal upon the home, and we wanted one of our own 
for the dear little child whose advent was to bring us 
such inexpressible joy. For more than one blessed year 
this lovely baby was the light of the home, then God re- 
called His precious gift and left us to learn a lesson that 
comes to all sooner or later — that the things we love best 
are often the treasures He needs most. 

It seemed to us there was never a sorrow like this, — 
to give back to mother Earth the beautiful form of our 
dear child, to put away the cradle and the high chair, 
and to see Frances, the little negro nurse, hide away 
the baby’s buggy, saying softly, “No, kitty cat, you 
can’t ride in the buggy no more; baby’s gone, gone 
to heaben.” Oh, healing balm for aching hearts, — 
“Gone to Heaven.” As the years passed and other little 
voices made music in our home, we learned to think of 
little Mary as just gone to heaven, and we were satisfied. 
Today, as I write these words, and think of the years that 
have come and gone since “The bright shining locks were 
put away, out of reach, beyond touch, in the clay,” I can 
46 


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Our Home 


47 


say from my heart, “God has been good to us, and His 
hand has led us all along our way.” Of the eight dear 
children He gave us, He has, in tender love and for a 
wise purpose, recalled three to Himself. First little 
Mary, then Benny, our first-born son, a fine promising 
boy of thirteen, and later dear Louise, our youngest 
daughter, whose brief life of seven happy years is such 
a sweet memory. 

These have been the clouds that dimmed the sun- 
shine of our lives, but even they were not without 
their silver lining. There are kindred spirits we might 
never have known, had they not found us through the 
channel of suffering. In our hours of bereavement many 
friends held out to us the hand of tender sympathy. One 
who had herself drunk deep of sorrow’s cup, has walked 
all the years with us in joy and in sorrow, as friend, as 
sister, as dear “Aunt Molly” to our children, and we still 
journey together toward the home beyond, where we shall 
enjoy more and more the friendship that has meant so 
much to us here. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Old Church. 

I HAVE referred in a former chapter to the Hope- 
well Presbyterian Church that was so dear to my 
childhood and early life. There is another church, 
the Methodist Episcopal Church South of Bastrop, that is 
very tenderly associated with my married life. 

Several years after our marriage, I united by letter from 
my pastor, Rev. Dr. R. K. Smoot, of the Southern Presby- 
terian Church of Austin, Texas, with this Methodist 
Church of Bastrop, whose pastor then was Rev. E. S. 
Smith. I did not love the church of my father less, but my 
husband had long been an active and useful member of the 
Methodist Church, and we wished to be united in all 
things that pertained to family life and that would estab- 
lish in the hearts of our children a firm faith in the unity 
of Christian love and activity, and save them from disturb- 
ing doubts as to which church was best, father’s or 
mother’s. They really teach the same vital truth and dif- 
fer only in minor points of doctrine and modes of worship. 
Our children have been brought up in this church, bap- 
tized at its altar and are all members of its communion, 
which is a great comfort to me. The same little christen- 
ing robe with baby’s skirt, made from my wedding dress, 
has been worn by each of our children and grandchildren 

48 



METHODIST CHURCH 
Bastrop, Texas 







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CHRISTENING ROBE 


The Old Church 


49 


at baptism, and is as dear to us as was the little dress that 
James Barrie’s mother, Margaret Ogilvie, held so ten- 
derly in her dying clasp, because it seemed to her the 
embodiment of her children who had worn it when she 
dedicated them to God. 

Very tender memories are treasured in the recollec- 
tions of this ancient church; for more than three quar- 
ters of a century, the massive bell in its tall steeple has 
sent forth its loud, clear call to the people to come and 
worship. The interior is solemn and beautiful in its old- 
time simplicity. Encircling one of its chief windows were 
long ago, the words “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men,” 
thus preaching the gospel of love to all who entered its 
doors. Sometimes its walls have echoed the mournful 
notes of the funeral dirge, and often they have resounded 
with the glad strains of the wedding march. 

My husband and I have sat in our family pew in this 
church Sabbath after Sabbath for nearly fifty years, and 
watched the sunlight fall from the stained glass windows 
upon the worshipping congregation, and as the happy 
voices united in one grand anthem of sacred song, we have 
felt like it was one of the gates of heaven and through its 
shining courts might be seen the Paradise of God. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Life-Work. 

C HE intervening years between our marriage and 
the present time have none of them been idle. 
They have been filled with useful work. Every 
man and woman rearing a family in a community has a 
duty to perform towards the social, the intellectual, the 
religious life of that community; they should assist in 
maintaining that high standard of living that gives the 
best to old and young, — tone and dignity as well as joy 
and pleasure to all forms of entertainment, and cultivates 
that beautiful hospitality so characteristic of the South. 

My husband found his books and clients, his home, his 
family and church, sufficient to* fill his life with work and 
sweet content. We surrounded our children with helpful 
influences, books, music, cheerful companionship, and a 
happy home life. I was a busy mother and home-maker, 
when our children were young. When they were older 
and not so dependent on my personal attention, I took part 
in club work, and found much interest in organizations 
whose objects were beneficial to me in many ways. I owe 
much to them, as they have helped me to be a better wife, 

50 








OUR PRESENT HOME 
Built in 1888 





Life-Work 


5i 

a wiser mother, a more intelligent worker in the home, 
the church and the community. 

We have not accomplished all that we desired, but one 
thing we planned for and worked for from the first, was 
the possession of a commodious and comfortable home, 
in which to rear our children, a home they would love and 
enjoy, and we have not been disappointed in that. A few 
years ago my husband and I had what we called our 
“bridal tour,” spending some weeks in delightful travel. 

For several summers we have sought rest or change 
and recreation among the mountains of Colorado and 
other western States. We have enjoyed the health-giving 
climate and wonderful scenic beauty of these places, but 
we have always turned our faces homeward with joy, for 
in our own home were centered all our work, our interests, 
and our happiness. 

I think the best days of our life have been when 
we could hear the sound of little feet going up and 
down the stairs, running from room to room, the 
echo of merry voices in the halls and galleries, and 
the happy laugh of boys and girls as they ran after 
old “Don,” and played hide and seek around the house; 
and now we are happiest when these children come with 
their own little ones — our grandchildren — and fill the 
empty rooms and make the halls again resound with mirth 
and music. The heated season drives them from their 
city homes to the cool shade of the pecan and the elms, 
and the soft grassy lawns at the old home. One of the 


52 


From Dawn to Eventide 


greatest pleasures is to see “Wardie,” our faithful old 
colored servant, who for twenty years has served us so 
well, carry the children in his arms and on his shoulders, 
to the watermelon patch, the barn, to town and to the 
woods, having no end of fun with them rollicking on the 
shady lawn. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The Ties That Bind. 

O UR children are all home lovers. As they have 
gone out from the roof that sheltered their child- 
hood they have made for themselves good homes, 
beautiful within and without with books and pictures, 
music and flowers, and filled with the gladness of chil- 
dren’s voices. They love their new homes, but they are 
always glad to come back for a visit to the old place where 
a warm welcome awaits them. From her childhood, Kate 
has been so bright and joyous, so full of life and love that 
her very presence makes you glad; she is the happy wife 
of Judge Thos. L. McCullough, of Waco, one of Nature’s 
noblemen. Their son, Orgain, a fine youth of sixteen, 
little Kate, a pretty brunette of eleven years, and Drusilla, 
a sweet child of seven, give their fond parents much to 
live for and much to hope for in the future. 

Clinton was always a thoughtful boy, and grew up a, 
gentle, tender hearted man. He is far away now, and 
mother misses her loving son, but his devoted wife, Bessie 
Pearcy, and their dear little music box, Bessie Clinton, 
makes life sweet to him and home happy wherever it 
may be. 

Our son, Will, never fails us; so thoughtful, so ready 
53 


54 


From Dawn to Eventide 


to answer any call ; he always “wanted to be like Papa, on 
the right side of everything.” He followed him in the 
choice of a profession, and while studying law at the 
State University, he met sweet May Bolinger, and per- 
suaded her to form a life partnership with him. They 
are very happy with their growing family, B. D., Jr., a 
fine little fellow, Allie May, so bright and happy and 
self reliant, and last but not least beloved, little John Clin- 
ton, the image of his father. 

Dru, our third daughter, so gentle and dependent, was 
early called to “Pass under the Rod” — being bereft of 
her devoted husband, Andrew Lee Fiser, within four 
years after their happy marriage. Since that time, she 
and her dear little son, Andrew Lee, Jr., have daily 
added to the pleasure of our old age by their presence in 
our home. 

Elbert, our youngest son, the beloved child of our old 
age, is a big, happy, busy man with as warm a heart as 
throbs in any breast. He and his dear wife, Louise Nich- 
ols, are in their own beautiful home quite near us. They 
come often to “look after” us and show us how the baby 
is growing. This dear little fellow, Franklin Darby, is 
the latest addition to our large and happy family, and 
although the ninth grandchild, his fond parents think 
him the finest of them all. 



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JUDGE THOMAS L. McCULLOUGH 
Waco, Texas 


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ORGAIN EDWARD McCULLOUGH 
Aged 18 years 


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LITTLE KATE McCULLOUGH 
Aged 13 years 


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drusilla McCullough 

Aged 6 years 



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JAMES CLINTON ORGAIN 


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MRS. CLINTON ORGAIN and daughter, EESSIE CLINTON 


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WILL E. ORGAIN 
Beaumont, Texas 


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MRS. WILL E. ORGAIN 

ALLIE MAY ORGAIN B. D. ORGAIN, Jr. 

Beaumont, Texas 


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JOHN CLINTON ORGAIN 
2 1 months old 


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DRU ORGAIN FISER 
ANDREW LEE FISER, Jr 


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ELBERT SAYERS ORGAIN 


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MRS. ELBERT SAYERS ORGAIN 








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FRANKLIN DARBY ORGAIN 
Aged 9 months 




CHAPTER XV. 

The Sunset of Life. 

Q EXT to the Invisible Presence that has been and 
will be our Stay and Comfort for all time, these 
children and grandchildren are the joy of our 
declining years. They make life worth living even amid 
the gathering shades of a fast coming night, and it is for 
them these rambling words are written. They are not for 
the critic’s eye, they have no rhetorical graces, no literary 
excellence, — they are a simple expression of some per- 
sonal recollections of my life, that I leave for my children, 
because after I have passed away, I wish them to know 
how I have loved this beautiful world and all it holds 
dear to me. 

I have loved to live because of my husband, my chil- 
dren, my friends, — because of present joys and future 
hopes. From the day my mother died and left me a 
lonely, sorrowing child, wondering what would become 
of me, God has watched over me; while the future looked 
dark and drear, He ordered my steps and made my path 
bright and safe. He brought unexpected opportunities, 
true friendship and constant affection to inspire hope and 
kindle faith. He sent to my heart a love that is better 
than life, stronger than death and lasting as eternity. He 
55 


56 


From Dawn to Eventide 


made the Eventide fairer than the Dawn and crowned 
my little day with blessing. 

My husband and I have walked together nearly half 
a century, and now when my cheek has lost its bloom, and 
my dear companion’s step its vigor, the brightness has not 
vanished from our sky nor the beauty faded with the flight 
of years. We welcome life’s closing day, — 

Twilight and evening bell and after that the dark , 

And may there be no sadness of farewell when we embark. 

For though from out our bourne of time and place 
The flood may bear us far, 
fV e hope to meet our Pilot face to face. 

When we have crossed the bar. 



CAPT. BENJ. D. ORGAIN 
Aged 70 years 



























































































































































GENEALOGY 
The Forney Family 

C ETER FORNEY left his native country, France, 
in 1685, at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, 
when he and other Huguenots sought in Alsace 
freedom from religious persecution. In Alsace he died, 
leaving a young son, Jacob. When this son was fourteen 
years of age he went to Amsterdam, and, after a few 
years there, sailed for America and settled in Penn- 
sylvania, where he remained until his maturity, when he 
went back to Europe for a legacy which had been left him. 

Returning home, on board the ship he met Maria 
Bergner, the daughter of a Huguenot family from Berne, 
Switzerland, on their way to America. These young 
people became much interested in each other, and the 
romantic attachment culminated in a happy marriage. 
Soon after their arrival in America Jacob Forney and his 
wife settled in North Carolina and reared a large family, 
their sons, Peter, Ephraim and Jacob, being loyal patriots 
and soldiers of the Revolution. Their daughter, Chris- 
tine, married David Abernathy, one of the band of sol- 
diers who captured Major Andre, of the British Army. 
These facts, except the last mentioned, are recorded in 
Wheeler’s “History of North Carolina.” 

57 


58 


From Dawn to Eventide 


Christine Forney and David Abernathy were married 
about the year 1787. 

Drusilla Young, daughter of David and Christine 
Abernathy, was born December 3, 1801, married James 
O. Alexander, March 8, 1821, and died August 26, 1830. 

Susan Matilda, daughter of James O. and Drusilla 
Alexander, was born December 7, 1821, married James 
M. Johnston, September 22, 1840, and died April 22, 
1853. 

Drusilla, daughter of James M. and Susan M. John- 
ston, was born July 2, 1843, and was married December 
27, 1870, to Capt. Benj. D. Orgain. 

The Alexander Family 

Hezekiah Alexander, born 1728 and died 1801. 

Silas Alexander, son of Hezekiah, married Sallie Reese. 

James O. Alexander, son of Silas, married Drusilla 
Abernathy. 

Su$an Alexander, daughter of James O. and his wife 
Drusilla, married James M. Johnston. 

Drusilla, daughter of James M. Johnston and his wife 
Susan, married Capt. Benj. D. Orgain. 

The Brevard Family 

Brevard, a Huguenot refugee, married Miss 

McKnitt. 

Robert Brevard was son of this union. Elizabeth or 


Genealogy 


59 

Betsy Brevard was daughter of Robert Brevard and 
married James Reese. 

Sallie Reese, daughter of James and his wife Betsy 
Brevard, married Silas Alexander. 

James O., son of Silas Alexander and his wife Sallie 
Reese, married Drusilla Abernathy. 

Susan Matilda Alexander, daughter of James O. 
Alexander and his wife Drusilla, married James M. 
Johnston. 

Drusilla, daughter of James M. Johnston and his wife 
Susan, married Capt. Benj. D. Orgain. 

The Johnston Family 

Richard Johnston, of North Carolina, married Eliza- 
beth, known as “Betty” Wilson, whose father, Matthew 
Wilson, came from Ireland to North Carolina before the 
American Revolution. 

John, son of Richard Johnston and his wife “Betty” 
Wilson, married Lucinda Paine. 

James M., son of John Johnston and his wife Lucinda, 
married Susan Alexander. 

Drusilla, daughter of James M. Johnston and his 
wife Susan, married Capt. Benj. D. Orgain. 









































































































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